


Darling, Stay With Me

by SophisticatedCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Post The Great Game, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:11:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2010459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophisticatedCat/pseuds/SophisticatedCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bomb went off.<br/>Sherlock's life ended.<br/>Yet, at least part of him has decided to linger.<br/>John Watson is still alive.<br/>Part of him is drawn again to Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling, Stay With Me

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful Katzedecimal sent me a prompt.  
> It was a really cool prompt, however the only word I seem to have taken note of was "ghost".  
> Whoops.

Sherlock wakes up with a start, a slight twinging feeling growing at the base of his skull. 

He’s standing in the middle of 221b. The usual smell of home, chemicals and warmth, is mixed with the metallic air of winter. 

As he walks across the flat, he notices the silence. It’s pure, empty, echoing silence. The usual creaks of the floor are absent. There is not so much as a draft whistling through the flat. 

The pain at the base of his skull throbs. A new pain begins to grow from the bottom of his ribs, spreading up into his heart. 

"John!" He shouts in vain. 

The pain shoots through his body to the beats of his heart. With each blow of his pulse, the flashes of memory overtake his every sense. 

Jim is there, and John  _Dearest John_. There’s a gun, then the bang, then the water and finally the pain. 

As the pain continues to beat through his body, he sees John and Mrs. Hudson. Red eyes and hollow faces. Hospital gowns, blood, pain, darkness. 

As the thrumming pain begins to recede, Sherlock realizes that he is crouched on his knees. 

He looks down at his hands. They are obviously his, they are obviously human. However, the scars and marks from years of living are gone. The familiar marks of having existed are gone, replaced by too-perfect stretches of milky skin. 

A cinnamon warmth steps into the room and hovers in front of Sherlock. He looks up, and into the soft face of John. 

John is wearing the same jumper he had when they solved their first case together. 

Without a word, he offers a hand to Sherlock. Sherlock grabs it and pulls himself up off the floor. 

The warmth of John’s skin lingers on Sherlock’s palm. Even after their hands separate, the pekoe warmth hangs onto Sherlock. The taller man hopes desperately that the familiar warmth will never fade. 

"What day is it?" Sherlock asks. It seems like a silly question, but part of him longs to know.

"May 14, 2010." John answers. "You died two weeks ago." John’s face remains stoic and military, but his voice shakes slightly. 

"How many times have you seen me?" Sherlock’s eyes pierce John, searching for a visual to accompany the upcoming answer.

"This makes 10."

John steps forward and places a comforting palm on Sherlock’s cheek. His index finger grazes the taller man’s cheekbone. John’s skin is warm, almost unbearably so. His presence, however, remains warmer still. The heat from John's still flowing blood, sinks into Sherlock's face and spreads through his skull and down his spine.

"I thought I'd lost you." John licks his lips and twitches the fingers of the hand not on Sherlock. 

"Well, I guess technically I did. But this-"

Sherlock steps forward, feeling the heat radiating off of John soak into his clothes.

He presses his metal lips against John’s cinnamon ones. It’s a chaste kiss, brief and closed mouth. However, the heat that spreads through Sherlock forces the entire experience to the verge of explosive. 

As they separate, John’s hand slides down Sherlock’s arm and clutches to the paler hand. 

He flashes a sad smile to Sherlock, before looking down towards Sherlock’s shoes. 

"I wish I would have told you- before the er…" His voice cracks. Sherlock squeezes his hand in reassurance and focuses his pale blue eyes to the golden hair on John’s head. 

Often he’d thought about that hair, the musky smell of it, the rough texture of the grey patches. He’d longed to card his fingers through it and memorize every aspect of John. 

John begins speaking again, breaking Sherlock’s train of thought. 

"-I should have told you every day that I love you…I love you and you saved me and I don’t know where….where I’d be without you." As John finishes his confession, he pulls his head back up into his focuses, trained, military stance. 

Sherlock looks down, into John’s eyes. The shards of blue seem to glow with the same extreme warmth that pushes from every aspect of John. It’s sunlight and tea and spice all at once, embodied into one invisible glow. 

Sherlock sighs “Well, I seem to have a lot of time now. I think I’d like to spend it with you.” 

John looks up. Sherlock wonders briefly how John sees him now. If his face is as cleaned as his hands, if his eyes are still as piercing.  _Trivial,_  he has to remind himself, _but something about him has always made me wonder, always has me guessing. How poetic_. 

"I love you too." Sherlock admits. "obviously."

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> If my ideas of a ghost do not comply with yours, please tell me what you think ghosts are. Really. I'm fascinated by other people's ideas on the subject. 
> 
> AND, John's character is difficult to write. He is so perfect to me that I never feel I do him justice. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks, dear readers!
> 
> PS: My idea of ghosts are strictly energies based upon the concept of one's 'soul'. This is in NO WAY necrophilia or anything as disgusting or creepy as that.  
> The 'cold' thing is based on the perception of Sherlock's 'soul' (You should stick to ice) rather than the physical characteristic of post-mortem heat loss.


End file.
